The Empire That Never Was
by Brievel
Summary: A continuing collection of short stories based on a fanon Empire from a roleplay, centering around a semi-biographical OC. Many more characters than listed, just the main focus listed.
1. Introduction

**Introduction**

This story, or more accurately, collection of stories, will follow the possibilities of the life of Lady Brievel (of _Confessions of an Imperial Agent_.) Yes, her name coincides with mine, yes, there is a reason for that - I am currently in intense roleplay; wherein I swear my allegiance to Palpatine during the Clone Wars in exchange for genuine power to influence the coming Empire. The roleplay still has us in the time of the Clone Wars, but of course, my imagination has already taken off and built all sorts of scenes that will happen in the future Empire, in which I/she will be involved. This collection will be those scenes, that may or may not ever take place in the roleplay, but have already taken place in our fanon Empire, in my head.

There will not necessarily be continuity, I will mark it if there is. Indeed there may be the same scene, with a different play of events. Again, obviously no continuity. And no... I do not actually have all of Lady Brievel's skills, I do however, attempt to base everything she knows and does on my own knowledge and abilities.


	2. Ready Aim Fire

She knew she looked dreadful, for a moment, her mind skipped to the tiny pot of glittery gold eyeshadow that, by curious coincidence and to her initial annoyance, matched her skin tone almost perfectly. When late nights and not-late-enough mornings had painted permanent red shadows around her eyes, she had taken to using it to hide the evidence of her lack of sleep. But she was a prisoner, not a beauty pageant contestant, and she put the pot from her mind. It would be nice to wash up before her execution, she thought distantly, but the part of her mind that had always recognized reality and forced her to stay grounded observed that she was only fussing about her appearance in order to ignore her impending death. Or perhaps the coming oblivion was good, perhaps she was absolutely crazy, in here talking to herself like this. Silently, or the guards would have something to say…

The door to the cell slid open, and she looked up, her feminine side still wincing at the mess she knew she was. The cold-faced Rebels didn't so much as blink as they snapped the binders on her wrists, dragging her from the dismal grey cell that had housed her since the fall of Imperial Center, less than a week before. She marched down the hall, determined to go to the mass execution with dignity. Most the core Council would, she suspected, if only to spite the Rebels – Isard and Quest and Dangor. Pestage and Aloo had been lost on the Death Star, with her Master and Vader. Plenty of the aristocrats and courtiers would doubtless whine and beg, but the ones who actually mattered in the running of the Empire – they were too bitter at the loss of their monumental achievement to care as much about their own lives.

Not to mention the Rebels would never have mercy on the ones they saw as having cause over two decades' worth of pain and injustice… fools, she mused furiously, of course martial law was harsh, it was war and the Empire did what needed doing. Had there not been a jumped-up rebellion causing trouble, the promised peace and safety would've been far more prominent. At this thought, her mind took a dismal turn, and her shoulders slumped slightly as the furious defiance slid into depression and remorseful wistfulness at all she'd wanted to achieve, everything the Empire was supposed to be and didn't manage.

She was shoved into a small room with the rest of the core Ruling Council and dozens of Rebel soldiers. She and the rest of the Council, with a couple of exceptions, had never really gotten along, but today they all exchanged sober nods. Today they were united, in their hatred of the upstart traitors that were destroying everything the small group had devoted their lives to, in their determination to go out, if not fighting, at least bravely. She stared absently out the open door at the broad expanse of sun-baked duracrete, silently apologizing to her dead Master. For failing him, for not being there to protect him, for not saving his favorite advisers, for not saving the Empire. He hadn't accepted failure from his servants, but it was his failure – to stop the Jedi, to stop the Rebels – that had sent the Empire into its inexorable tumble. Her heart twisted with bitter pain at the loss of the galactic institution for which she'd given up everything, desolation setting in and robbing her of the will to survive past this day, resigning her to her imminent fate.

The conquerors herded their high-priority prisoners together and shepherded them outside, lining them up against the wall. Each was offered a blindfold, she absently watched the soldier walk down the line, pride swelling in her as each of her companions turned it down with more or less dignity or defiance. An incongruous urge to chuckle rose in her as Quest openly spit – clearly pre-prepared – into the face of the Rebel. When the man stopped before her, she didn't even say anything, just gave him a steady stare. He moved on and her focus drifted out over the crowd again, her mind already starting to shut down.

The firing squad lined up before the captured Imperials, and she blinked once, focusing on the executioners. A voice from somewhere off to her right barked out. "Ready!" A dozen blaster rifles came snapping up to shoulders. "Aim!" A dozen heads bent, sighting. "Fire!" A dozen blaster bolts ripped out, screaming across the short open space.

A soft sigh escaped her as she felt the bolts rip into her body. Dimly she felt herself folding onto the warm duracrete, squinting a little up into the blazing sun above. She sensed more than heard or saw her companions' bodies falling beside hers. Regret warred with peace as she gazed upward, her blood mingling on the ground with the others'. Finally letting her eyelids drop closed against the light, she let go.


	3. Guerilla

She sat, slowly, mindlessly cleaning her lightsaber, staring across the expanse. The Empire had fallen, overrun by the Rebellion. Darth Vader was dead, no one knew what happened to the Emperor – had the Rebels killed him, surely they would be parading it about, broadcasting it far and wide, but they were curiously silent on the subject. The remnants of the Empire were divided in their hopes, many factions staying fanatically loyal, the more ambitious hoping secretly that Palpatine truly was dead. The Ruling Council had been assembled when the attack was begun, had been assembled for some time and wondering why the Emperor was hours late. The High Council had fled, of course, leaving the sycophantic fools to their grisly fate.

She remembered slipping back beside Pestage, their deal from years earlier enabling them to communicate in a few terse sentences. She recalled begging Pestage and Quest to set aside their differences in their shared loyalty to Palpatine, recollected as she and Quest and Darth Ruinous – the time-traveling Sith who had been suffered by Sidious to live, subsequently becoming her best friend – had openly and ruthlessly tore into the minds of the High Council, held captive by their own in the safe house. She remembered as those loyal to Palpatine – Sate Pestage, Sarcev Quest, Ars Dangor (to her intense private displeasure,) Sim Aloo (her personal favorite from the Council, a man she respected and admired,) herself, obviously, and her friend Darth Ruinous – had remorselessly executed the remainder of the Council whose ambitions overshadowed their loyalty to Emperor Palpatine and his Empire. She herself had felt a vindictive satisfaction as her yellow lightsaber clove Ysanne Isard – she had hated the smarmy, sadistic, treacherous girl since the newcomer had first attempted to get into the good graces of the more senior Lady, and their rivalry had been legendary even amongst the notoriously suspicious, hostile Council.

She remembered the distrust and suspicion among the survivors, their sole common trait their absolute loyalty to Palpatine and the Empire. She remembered the pact, the harrowing hyperspace travel to Dathomir, remembered the hard copy of the pact, signed in the blood of each remaining Adviser, and sealed with a Nightsister spell. She remembered the argument, violent and intense, that had almost gotten them all killed right there standing around the stone pedestal on which their pact, and their blood, lay; she remembered the final, tentative, reluctant resolution that Pestage and Dangor would share equal power. She remembered sullenly kneeling with the rest, vowing to follow the orders of the two Interim Emperors, so long as they remained loyal to Palpatine and the Empire. She remembered how strongly she and Ruinous had had to fight to even bring the Imperial citizens into the pact at all.

She easily recalled her many, many fights with Pestage and Dangor since then, her tireless campaign for the innocents in the war, the loyalty of Imperial citizens. She remembered the bitter shock as so many civilians simply went along with the change of government, her horror as those who remained loyal turned out to be fanatics. She remembered, too, when the Hands had arrived and swelled the ranks of the tiny guerrilla government. She had not been alone in distrusting them, but so far, Quest had kept them under control.

"Rebels are coming." The tinny voice rang over the commlink in her ear, and she shifted into position. Behind her lay the new Imperial government building, protected by the few fighters left to their force. Reaching down, she brushed her fingertips against the blaster on her thigh, her right hand clenching around the sable-and-silver hilt of her lightsaber. Movement from less than a klick away caught her eye and she tensed in anticipation of the fight. This was it, then...

* * *

 **The Imperials actually win this battle, and she survives. And no, they're not all going to be about the fall of the Empire or post-fall Empire. That's just what I have in my head right now for some reason.  
**


	4. Arrest

"Have you come to arrest me, Master Windu?" he asked in mild, polite interest. His eyes flickered around the posse collected to contain him – three additional Masters, but no Chosen One, he noted with interest, and almost laughed. Did the fools not realize they were driving Anakin yet further away by preventing the very destiny they'd placed on him for so long? His eyes crinkled and he smiled as he added gently, "You see, even if I am this Sith Lord you claim I am, prosecution for religious beliefs was outlawed in the Republic some hundreds of years ago. On what grounds do you arrest me?"

"He's right, Masters," piped up a young feminine voice. Windu cursed himself silently, noticing the sixth figure in the room for the first time. Between her shielding and the Masters' focus on the Sith Lord, the young woman had escaped detection until now. He knew of her, of course, the little Grey Jedi who, three years previously, spent a few months with the Corellian Jedi until a tragic accident sent her fleeing from the system into obscurity. She had reappeared just a few months ago, a dark horse candidate for the freshly-open position of Minister of Economics of Kuat – and keeping her Force sensitivity a secret, the Jedi had noted. Against all odds, the freshly-minted Lady Brievel achieved the position, surprising the Jedi not least. Upon taking office, she had immediately started making all kinds of radical changes, benefiting the public, that had the elite of her (claimed) homeworld frothing at the mouth. Windu would almost have been inclined to like the girl, had she not challenged the Jedi to their faces many times on many of their oldest, most upheld traditions. As it was, her outspokenness against the Code had won her no friends on the Council.

Now she sashayed out of the shadows, to cause them yet more inconvenience. Should she prove too much of an obstacle, they would simply have to take her in as an accessory to the Sith's plans. She bore her usual expression of mild, entertained (and possibly slightly condescending) interest in the proceedings, her tone reasonable (but was that a trace of amusement?) "Don't arrest him for his religion. In fact, don't arrest him at all – you have no grounds. If, as he said, he really _is_ the Sith Lord you claim him to be, you should be able to link him to all sorts of nefarious plans." Windu could swear her eyes were laughing at them as she spoke, still calmly, still reasonably. "And if you can't… well, we wouldn't want the guardians of peace and justice embroiled in a sordid arrest of the legitimate Chancellor without proper grounds, would we?" Yes, definitely laughing.

Speaking of laughing, Palpatine was regarding the whole conversation with open amusement. Now he cut in smoothly, "Have no fear, Master Windu, I'm going nowhere. As the Supreme Chancellor, I do, after all, have a galaxy – a war – to run."

"Exactly my point," Windu seethed, lightsaber not wavering an inch. Curse these politicians, with their maneuvering and manipulating! Between the two of them, they had backed the Jedi into a corner – and that insolent girl had even had the gall to feign that her interest lay with the Jedi. He scowled at her, his temper heightening when she smiled sweetly back.

Kit Fisto, the youngest Master in the room, spoke up, deactivating his lightsaber as he did so and lowering the hilt casually. "If His Excellency really isn't the Sith Lord, then surely he will not object to having Jedi guarding him at all times as he goes about his business, especially in light of the recent Separatist kidnapping."

Palpatine eyed the alien with grudging, surprised respect at a game well-played. Easily placing a magnanimous smile upon his features, he spread his hands wide. "Of course, Master Fisto. How could I possibly refuse an offer from a being concerned only with my safety and that of the Republic?" Sarcasm was sweet, whether spoken in a withering tone or an earnest one, and a small instant revenge on the self-righteous, pretentious Order that insisted on making such a nuisance of their collective selves.

Windu looked between the actors of this little drama – his fellows, his opponent, the girl who seemed to delight only in playing devil's advocate – and reluctantly joined Fisto in deactivating his weapon, an act the others took as permission to do the same. "Very well," he acquiesced with bad grace and the consolation that even if they couldn't take the Sith disease into custody at once, it would be a dead giveaway to the public should their beloved leader suddenly sprout a red lightsaber and decapitate his bodyguards. Although the man almost certainly had experience in arranging convincing accidents, the Korun master reflected morosely.

The little Lady added her voice to the conversation, _sotto voce,_ soft and incredulous with disbelief. "A Jedi bodyguard is only just now occurring to the Council? Great Force, it's a wonder the Order didn't go to the akks decades ago… oh wait..." She smirked in the face of five withering glares, unchastened and unsilenced. "Nothing like a common annoyance to unite enemies, is there?"

"I believe our meeting is over, Lady Brievel," the Chancellor said coldly, and she shrugged. Her Master could take perfectly good care of himself without her, after all, she was just along for the ride – and to cause aggravation and further turmoil for the fun of it. (Perhaps her friend was right, she might make a halfway decent Sith. Scary thought, that.)

Dropping a curtsy to first the Chancellor and then the Jedi Masters, she said courteously, "I bid you all a good night." Her eyes twinkled as she added mischievously, "and a very productive evening." Pressing her rather voluminous skirts in, she wove between brown-and-tan linen and vanished out the door, regretfully leaving an extremely interesting situation behind her.


End file.
